


The Sounds Of A New Page Turning

by under_my_blue_umbrella



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, I think you can live with that, Is there such a thing as angsty fluff?, and Sister Marie is mentioned, and by the arrival of musketeer mail, as usual this did not go where it was supposed to go, but they don't actually show up sorry, for the Sylvie haters: she only appears in one single sentence, for the record: I like her!, if so this is it, inspired by the need for good news, so is the Mother Superior, we are at the convent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:01:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23650501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_my_blue_umbrella/pseuds/under_my_blue_umbrella
Summary: A new page turns for Athos, and d'Artagnan is there to help.
Comments: 18
Kudos: 34





	The Sounds Of A New Page Turning

**Author's Note:**

> Contains a small nod to the Library Musketeers (you know who you are). It was supposed to be a much bigger (and much more obvious) nod, but my stories do this thing where they give me a cocky grin and then take off in an entirely different direction from what I'd intended.
> 
> Also, probably the most unexciting ficlet I've ever written, but it's been a while, and I needed to flex my muscles.

A scream echoed through the candle-lit corridors of the convent, ferocious, inhuman, and Athos flinched. He’d been pacing up and down in front of the infirmary and stopped to stare at the heavy door, eyes wide with fear, hands trembling as he dug them into his hair. 

“I can’t take this anymore. I can’t. I-” He broke off, turning even paler than usual, as a string of curses and then another scream floated through the thick oakwood. 

“Hey.” D’Artagnan firmly clasped Athos’ shoulder. “She’s in good hands. The best. She’ll be fine. They will both be fine.”

Athos lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair a mess, his black shirt sweat-soaked, and it had been a while since d’Artagnan had seen his brother in a similar state of dissolution. 

“You can’t know that,” Athos lamented, choking. “You can’t. What if she… if they... I can’t-” He heaved a stuttering breath and staggered against d’Artagnan’s grasp. 

“ _You_ need to get away from here.”

Without elaborating further, d’Artagnan placed one arm around Athos and steered him down the corridor, away from the infirmary, out of earshot from the murmuring voices and from the screams. Athos didn’t fight him, just let himself be guided, a quaking, compliant shadow of his usual self, and d’Artagnan was both shocked and amazed at what love had done to his friend.

He considered taking Athos outside, but it would be even hotter in the convent’s courtyard. After another stifling August day without a single drop of rain and not a single cloud in the sky, even nightfall had stopped bringing relief. The earth itself was radiating heat, not a breeze stirring, the convent encased in a smothering cocoon of summer. 

No, he knew where to take Athos.

They took a left, then a right turn, down another hushed corridor, and then d’Artagnan opened a door and pushed his friend into the cool confines of the library. 

“Sit.” He deposited Athos in a high-backed chair with armrests and lit the oil lamp on the table by its side. “Breathe.”

Athos looked up and around, momentarily confused, until he recognized where he was. His eyes wandered over the stacked shelves of the spacious room, across the wide, painted ceiling, traced the wooden desks and cool stone arches. He cocked his head, listening. Then he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he seemed calmer.

D’Artagnan smiled. “Better?”

“Yes.” Athos released the armrests he’d been clutching and ran a hand across his face. His fingers were still trembling a little. “Thank you.”

“There really is no need to worry,” d’Artagnan reassured him. He’d pulled up a chair from a writing desk and sat down next to Athos. “Sylvie is strong and healthy. And Sister Marie is with her. So are Aramis and Porthos. And the Mother Superior. Even God wouldn’t dare mess with her! With any of them!”

D’Artagnan was pleased to see a shaky smile appear on Athos’ face.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I know. It’s just that-” He wrung his hands in his lap. “ _I_ should be with her. I should be there for her.”

“She kicked you out, remember?” D’Artagnan couldn’t hide a grin. “If I remember correctly, among other things she called you the son of Sa-“

“I know,” Athos interrupted him, unable to suppress an embarrassed smirk himself now. 

“I don’t think she meant it.” D’Artagnan’s grin widened.

“I hope not.” Athos quirked a brow, and d’Artagnan was relieved and a little proud to see his brother relax further. 

Still, enough tension remained in the Musketeer captain to nervously rub his hands on his thighs and get up to resume his pacing.

“How much longer, do you think?” he asked over his shoulder, sounding anxious again.

“Not long. Any minute now.”

Athos turned around and gave him a strange look, brows furrowed. “How can you be so sure?” 

D’Artagnan shrugged. “My mother assisted a lot of women during birth. Neighbours. Farm hands. And remember all my nieces and nephews? I know the drill.”

This time, he was met with a look of mildly shocked admiration. “You’ve _witnessed_ all of… of _that_?”

Huffing, d’Artagnan shook his head in amusement. “Birth is something very common where I come from. We don’t do it secretly or surrounded by midwives and nurse maids. I don’t come from nobility.”

That should have stung Athos who was not exactly proud of his wealthy, noble family background, but d’Artagnan had put enough warmth into his words to make his remark sound lenient instead of mocking.

Athos looked at him in mild surprise. “Look who’s teaching who now,” he said quietly.

D’Artagnan felt his ears redden.

Turning back to the bookshelf, Athos slowly walked its length, one hand running over the leather-bound spines as he did. It was something d’Artagnan had seen him do before, years ago, when Athos had been stuck in the convent for weeks, recovering from a broken jaw. Once he’d healed enough to leave his bed in the infirmary, he’d passed a lot of time in the library. It had appeared to be a place of comfort for him, a place that both brought him back to himself and helped him escape an unbearable situation.

Pausing, Athos now squinted at a book and then pulled the thick, gilded tome from the shelf. D’Artagnan couldn’t read its title, but in the honey-coloured glow from the oil lamp he could see that it was written in verse when Athos opened it. He leafed through it, fingers absentmindedly caressing the pages 

“What was your father like?” Athos asked suddenly, his eyes still fixed on the book.

D’Artagnan leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his stomach. Memories washed through him. 

“He was a good man. Kind. Practical. He liked to laugh.”

“You’ve got that from him, then.” Athos smiled softly at the poem he was reading. 

“Yes,” d’Artagnan mused, chuckling. “Possibly. Unfortunately, I did not inherit his patience. He would never get tired of explaining something to me. Or of waiting for his turn. Of listening.” He huffed, shaking his head at himself. “And your father?”

Once the question was out, d’Artagnan wanted to slap himself. Athos never talked about his family, and he had his reasons. Readying himself for a rebuke, d’Artagnan was surprised when it didn’t come. 

“I suppose he was the opposite of yours,” Athos said pensively. “Cold. Aloof. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh.”

Silence hung heavy in the air after this statement. And an unvoiced fear that d’Artagnan could feel in Athos’ words.

“You will be a great father, Athos.” He stood up and joined his brother’s side, his hand automatically finding the older Musketeer’s shoulder again. “Don’t worry. I know you will be. After all, I’ve seen you raise a kid before.” At that, he cocked a playful eyebrow at Athos and pointed a thumb at himself, erasing any doubt who he meant.

He was rewarded with an amused huff and an eye roll. 

“It appears I did, didn-”

Athos’ reply was cut short by the library door swinging abruptly open and Porthos appearing in its frame. He was drenched in sweat, sleeves rolled up, and d’Artagnan saw a few stains on his shirt that might have been blood, but a huge smile was plastered on the dark face.

“Come and see your girls, Athos,” he boomed.

Quickly, d’Artagnan caught the book that slipped from Athos’ hands as he froze in place and his face lost all remaining colour. For a moment, while Porthos stood there, panting happily, d’Artagnan was afraid their steadfast captain would, in fact, faint. But then Athos swallowed, straightened and whispered reverently: “I have a daughter?”

“Uh-huh!” Porthos confirmed, beaming. “An’ she’s mighty pretty too.” 

Athos took a hesitant step forward. “And Sylvie? Is she…?” 

There it was again, that bottomless fear in his voice, that fear which, as d’Artagnan knew all too well, was born from carrying your heart on the outside of your chest, for anyone to tear it apart, from the moment you let it love someone.

“She’s fine,” Porthos grinned. “Tired, but fine. She can’t wait ta see ya. An’ apologize, I think?” A deep chuckle rumbled in the big Musketeer’s chest. 

Athos visibly sagged, and d’Artagnan saw him blink away tears of relief. Then he stormed across the room and embraced Porthos, slapping the large man’s back. “Thank you! Thank you!”

“Wasn’ much I had to do,” the big fighter replied off-handedly. “You got yourself a strong woman. Gonna be a fierce mother, too!”

“And thank you as well,” Athos added, looking around at d’Artagnan. The worry on his face had given way to happy incredulity.

_Athos was a father._

The quiet, reclusive captain may not believe it himself yet, but d’Artagnan truly did not think there was a better man to raise a child. 

“Go, Athos!” he urged, his own chest expanding with happiness for his friend. “Go, what are you waiting for?!”

And Athos nodded and, almost colliding with a sleepless sister in the corridor, was out the door and broke into a run.

XXX

Two hours later, d’Artagnan silently stuck his head into the room where the new family was recovering. Sylvie was fast asleep, but her face was turned to the side of the bed where Athos was sitting, holding their child. Candle light bathed father and daughter in a soft glow, and all d’Artagnan could see of the little girl was a shock of black hair and a small brown hand firmly closed around Athos’ index finger. Unaware of d’Artagnan’s presence, he was reading to her from a book balanced on his knee, his voice a dark silken whisper. Shreds of rhymes reached d’Artagnan’s ears - _sweet as honey… too much for me…_ \- and although he could not catch the gist of the poem, he only had to look at Athos’ face to know that it was speaking of love. 

The lines of old pain had not disappeared from the captain’s features, nor had the shadows under his eyes. But there was a new softness to his expression as he gazed back and forth between the book and his daughter. There was wonder. Undeniable enchantment.

D’Artagnan smiled and, unseen, pulled his head back and closed the door. One hand resting on the pommel of his sword, he widened his stance to stand guard in front of the small room. He knew that, in the years to come, Athos’ little girl would cost him many more sleepless nights, a lot of grey hairs and worry lines. That his brother had opened himself wide to new heartache and to an entirely different possibility of loss. But for now, for this peaceful night, he would not let anything or anyone get to them. _God help them if they tried._

**Author's Note:**

> Musketeer fluff? With _Athos?_ Yeah, I don't quite know what that was either. Blame it on a world wide pandemic and things being scary enough without me adding dark fic.
> 
> The idea was to have Athos and d'Artagnan look for refuge in a library, as a place of comfort, and then, somehow, a baby came into play and it ended up being about fatherhood. 
> 
> The poem Athos reads to his daughter (she has a name in my head, but I'm saving it for a different story) is from _Carmina_ by Catullus, No. 48, translated into English. Look it up, it's beautiful.


End file.
